Last Friday, Tom died. He was a poet of critical intensity, alive to the possibilities of language. Given the man's intellectual courage, there was something beyond the pale about the work. He got the game too clearly and said so.
Billy Collins said he was a lyric imp. Well, I suppose. There should be no mistake, though: the play led to serious ends. The work mattered and, and times, bit with bright incisors.
I'd corresponded with Tom for a number of years. He was a dear friend and a mentor. I wish I'd had the chance to sit and talk with him in person. I can't overestimate the importance of his friendship. In writing, he'll remain the first reader in my mind.
All my love and thoughts are with Angelica, who shared life with Tom for fifty years.
Sunday, 19 August 2018
Saturday, 4 August 2018
Excrement spreads from back to front finding creases and somehow the order of a day how fear
sets vertu aside how the soi-disant decision gleams yes one girl in the corner arches her back
the wrong way then up straight and settles assertions stunted slither from front to back
a doll face and you know there's a conversation to be had but wait but wait a lulling smile